Confession of a Bostonian in Miami
<p>“It all started when I took a nap — <em>siesta</em> is the word of the land — upon the pool at 4 P.M. I was reading Herman Melville, but his words became unbearable, so I threw a cap on my face and my sentience drippled into a dream. That, the day-dream, should have alarmed me first. In Boston my dreams fright me up at 5 in the coldness of the morning, hours before the sunrise, the snow smears the dim horizon. Yet when I woke up today, it was 5, but P.M.</p>
<p>“You see, when a man wakes up, he turns on his senses from the most primitive to the most advanced. My first sense was that my feet were warm. These poor Atlases haven’t felt that for ages. In Boston, even with my shower head steaming, the water on the stall floor still feels tepid. But not today. My feet were thoroughly warm for the first time, for I have baked them in the sun throughout my slumber. The heat came into me.</p>
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